The Only Truth I Know is You
by Adypose
Summary: This is a sequel to "The Banality of Evil," so please read that first. Sherlock and John attempt to deal with the aftermath what happened to John, but will their relationship be able stand the strain? And will Sherlock be able to deal with the emotions forced upon him by the situation? Eventual Johnlock. Rated for subject matter.
1. Sound of Silence

**Summary: This is a sequel to "The Banality of Evil," so please read that first (it is a fairly short oneshot). Sherlock and John attempt to deal with the aftermath what happened to John, but will their relationship be able stand the strain? And will Sherlock be able to deal with the emotions forced upon him by the situation? This will eventually be much more Johnlock than the first, so fair warning (I promise it won't be explicit—I would blush, haha).**

**WARNING, may be triggering due to mentions of rape and PTSD—and perhaps even an eating disorder, though not explicit. Again, I'm not terribly explicit with these things, but I am a bit more so than in the oneshot, so please read with care.**

***Author's note: To be frank, this story is personally very difficult for me to write, so your gentleness (and support?) is much appreciated. As with my other stories, please visit Pinterest dot com /Adypose/ for more information, including the many inspirations for this story.**

**One more thing and I promise I will get on with it. Thank you so much to the readers of the oneshot that preceded this. I would never have continued the story without your encouragement and this story has been a difficult, but I think healing, process. So THANK YOU!**

* * *

"Hello darkness my old friend,

I've come to talk with you again,

Because a vision softly creeping

Left its scenes while I was sleeping

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains within the sound of silence"

(Simon and Garfunkel, "Sound of Silence").

John sat in front of his therapist once again, staring out the window at the rain that fell soft and warm like a memory, tapping a quiet pattern on the roof and walls. His mind was far from this room—miles away, countries away. An impatient noise from his therapist broke his reverie and he forced himself to look back at her.

"John, you still haven't told me why you're here," she said, giving him a piercing look that made him even more uncomfortable.

John cleared his throat, urging himself to speak, to get it out and over-with and break the silence that had taken him hostage. The night that Sherlock had confronted him, he made John promise to go back to his therapist to get help. John wasn't thrilled with the idea, but Sherlock clearly had no idea how to handle the information he had just learned and John decided to concede, if not for his own sake, then for Sherlock's. Still, the words wouldn't come to his lips, which trembled with even the though of speaking...of telling _that_ story.

"I...I can't. Not right now. Not yet," he finally stammered, feeling weak and ashamed that he had let Sherlock down. Overwhelmed to the point of breaking, he rose and silently left the room, more than 30 minutes left still in his session. His therapist wasn't surprised, though she was frustrated. This wasn't the first time he had done this since he had shown up out of nowhere last month.

John let the rain fall unhindered on his face as he walked (limped) back to Baker Street, hoping it could wash away some of the thoughts trying to overpower him. He felt utterly hopeless and useless. How was he supposed to get help if he couldn't even speak? This silence was growing within him like a cancer. Worse, when he did find his voice, his words lacked meaning and substance—he was talking without speaking and everyone else was hearing without listening. He couldn't translate what happened and how he was feeling into words and he was growing incredibly tired of speaking words nobody seemed to understand.

He glanced at the buildings around him, knowing he should find a cab. It was a long way to Baker Street and he was really in no condition to walk, especially not in the rain. Although he had promised Sherlock to take better care of himself, he felt as though his body and mind were engaged in a constant, violent war. His body told him he needed sleep, food, water, etc., but his mind refused to allow him to provide himself with even the most basic needs without a fight, one he often lost.

He knew he was approaching the edge and he knew that Sherlock hadn't missed the signs. It was making their relationship tense and John was fully aware he had to do something soon or he would self-destruct, but he was slowly becoming aware that he was completely incapable of making a move in the right direction. He needed a push. He needed someone else to help him, guide him. But the only person he could even begin to trust with such an intimate task was Sherlock and, although he had been trying in his own way to help, John was aware that he was just as lost as he in this territory. The blind leading the blind, running into walls and trying not to fall off of cliffs.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the flat, his fingers pressed together in front of his chin, staring at the wall as though it could give him the answers he needed. He was in completely new territory and he was more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his entire life.

"All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage," his brother had said and Sherlock was never more aware of the truth of those words than he was now. John was breaking down in front of his eyes and he had no idea what to do about it. Before John he had been a rock, a machine, totally unencumbered by _emotions_, but now… John had disturbed the slumber of feelings he thought had died. Still, emotions were _not_ his specialty. He needed facts, data, action.

Sitting erect suddenly, Sherlock reached for his phone and dialed his brother's number.

"Hello brother. How is our good doctor doing?" Mycroft sounded legitimately concerned, but Sherlock ignored this.

"I need details, Mycroft," he said, bypassing a greeting (boring). "I need to know everything you know about what happened."

Mycroft hesitated before his voice sounded on the other end of the line. "Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea. It really isn't my place. John needs to tell you, not me."

"John isn't talking and I need data," Sherlock insisted, his voice growing impatient.

"Sherlock, this isn't one of your cases. Data isn't going to help here," Mycroft responded, sounding almost pitying. "You aren't dealing with a puzzle, you are dealing with a human being who is hurting and needs your support."

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled, "give me what you have or I'll get it myself, and we both know how much you hate it when I break into your office."

Mycroft sighed. His brother obviously didn't understand and he hoped that whatever finally made him understand would not kill John in the process.

"Fine," he said at last.

* * *

Sherlock read the documents in front of him with growing fury as he began to piece together the story of what happened to John. The hospital report indicated no major injuries (other than those consistent with, well, what Sherlock already knew had happened to John), indicating that John had not put up too much of a fight. It was also noted that he had alcohol in his system when he arrived, which might explain the lack of a struggle. The record also noted that John had refused to tell the police. Why?

The documents about Robert indicated that he and John had known each other long before either joined the army. They had grown up in the same town, on the same street, not two houses down from one another. Sherlock was becoming, if possible, more furious, his blood boiling in his veins. They had been more than just casual mates then. John had obviously trusted this...bastard. He made a decision.

John walked into the flat just as Sherlock finished rereading the documents for the 10th, 20th time—he had lost count. He looked up immediately and noted John's appearance. He was soaked and looked exhausted, leaning on his cane heavily. He had obviously walked home from his session and, judging from the time, had left said session early...again. Sherlock frowned.

John simultaneously noted the pile of documents in front of Sherlock, immediately recognizing a medical record-his own, in fact-and became angry (which he seemed to do quite a bit lately).

"Sherlock," he snapped, still standing in the doorway, "what are you doing?"

"Gathering data," he said, obviously confused that John didn't understand.

"I'm not a case!" John nearly yelled.

"John, I said I would help. How can I if I don't have data," Sherlock explained, as if to a child. "I need data, particularly if I am to find this bastard."

"W..what," John stammered, taken aback at this sudden outburst. "Sherlock, we've talked about this. I don't want you going after him."

"We haven't talked about anything," Sherlock gave John a stern look. "Why didn't you report him to the police after it happened?"

"Sherlock, I'm not talking about this. I can't. Just leave it," John was panicked now. Sherlock obviously wasn't interested in listening to him.

"John," Sherlock's anger rising again was now directed at his friend. "Why do you insist on doing _nothing_ to help yourself? It has been a month since you started therapy and your PTSD is no better. Plus, you are losing weight!"

"Sherlock, getting…him…put in jail isn't going to help," John was hurt by Sherlock's accusation, as though he were deteriorating deliberately. As though he could control it.

"I wasn't planning on putting him in jail," Sherlock spat, looking away from John.

John's eyes widened. This was very not good. Not only was he unable to help himself, but now his best friend was going to commit murder and get himself locked up, all because of him.

"Sherlock," he began. "Please, you can't do this. It will make everything much worse for me, I promise."

"Why?" Sherlock shouted, getting up from his seat and marching toward John. "Why would giving that bastard low-life some justice make things worse?"

"It just would," John looked at Sherlock furiously. He didn't want to think about this and this man, who was supposed to be helping him, kept shoving it in front of his face. "You have no right to do anything, Sherlock."

"Fine," Sherlock said, his voice full of venom, "fine, if you just want to sit here and self-destruct then I'll leave you to it." With that Sherlock stood and swept out of the flat.

John stared at the door in stunned silence. He couldn't believe he had said that, had driven his best friend and only hope away. God he was stupid, so stupid. Their lives had become a still-life watercolor of a relationship falling to pieces. They were becoming a badly written poem—verses out of rhythm, couplets out of rhyme—and he had no idea how to fix it. Tears began streaming down his cheek and soon became a flood, sobs choking him as John collapsed in on himself, certain he had just lost the only thing keeping him together.


	2. Sick Cycle

"If shame had a face I think it would kind of look like mine.

If it had a home it would be in my eyes.

Would you believe me if I said I'm tired of this?

….

I try to tame this mind.

You'd better believe that I have tried to beat this"

(Lifehouse, "Sick Cycle Carousel").

* * *

John sat in his chair, his mind numb, eyes swollen and red, and throat hoarse from sobbing, but he had come to a decision. Sherlock was the only constant left in his life after his last remaining beliefs in the world were shattered by…him (saying the name, even in his head, was too painful). He couldn't lose him…he wouldn't survive it. So, he had decided that if he weren't capable of getting well, he would pretend, for Sherlock's sake and his own.

He began attending his therapy sessions and talking (though not about _that_, as much as he tried). He also returned to work after a month's absence. He forced himself to eat as much as possible, though it still wasn't enough to replace the weight he had lost. He still didn't sleep, but he placed a towel in the crack under his door, which effectively drowned out the noise of his nightmares. He tried sleeping pills, but they simply trapped him in his nightmares, forcing him to face the darkness overcoming his soul with no protection, no barrier—so, that didn't last long at all.

Sherlock seemed thankful for John's apparent turnaround and even asked John if he felt up for a case, which Lestrade had been trying to get him to take for a week.

"It's really quite a boring one," he said, looking carefully at John, who was sitting across from him holding tea, having just returned home from work, "but it is something. Might be nice to do a case together again."

"That sounds great!" John was legitimately please, particularly when Sherlock grinned at him. Things might go back to normal after all, on the surface, at least.

He should have known that this happy charade could only last so long, particularly when it was directed at Sherlock Holmes. If it seems to good to be true…

* * *

The scene of the crime was familiar: an inconspicuous room, blood spattered across the floor, a dead body in the center. John moved to the body and began his examination, Sherlock watching him from a corner, looking bored. John could tell he had solved the case long before they had even arrived at the scene. Coming here was simply a release from the confines of the flat that had been suffocating them both for the past two months. It suited John just fine.

After a careful, but quick, examination of the body, John rose and spoke with Sherlock about his findings, Lestrade listening quietly to the side. He watched as Sherlock turned to Lestrade and began explaining the case, but soon decided he needed some fresh air and stepped outside. The case was, in fact, quite boring after all.

Once outside, John stood by the building, trying not to think too much about the blood inside, which was triggering uncomfortable memories. He was so focused on not thinking that he didn't notice the yarder come up behind him, trying to get his attention, until he placed a hand on John's shoulder.

John jumped, his blood seeming to freeze in his veins as his heart suddenly stopped beating. He turned quickly, eyes widening as they settled on the man who had placed a hand on him—Robert. He began shaking and his legs gave out beneath him. Robert was saying something, leaning toward him. John flinched and scooted away, covering his face with his arms the sound of the crime scene drowned out by the buzzing in his head, which had become unbearable. Suddenly a hand grabbed his arm, forcing it away from his face. He knew what was about to happen and sobs began to wrack his body as he murmured, "No, please no."

Sherlock—who had run to John when the yarder, confused and worried, had run into the building saying something was wrong—was shouting at Lestrade.

"Get me a car! We need to go home. NOW!" he yelled, holding John's face as he thrashed and sobbed, eyes wide but unseeing.

"What the hell is going on?" Lestrade asked as he jogged over to the two men crouching by the side of the building.

"Flashback," Sherlock mumbled, trying to get John to stop struggling.

Lestrade was confused. He thought John had gotten over the worst of his PTSD from Afghanistan, but he was obviously wrong. He had seen flashbacks before and this was certainly a bad one.

"Car's over there," he said as one of the yarders pulled up on the street close to the boys.

Sherlock didn't say a word as he carefully lifted his friend, avoiding flailing limbs, and placed him in the car, barking orders at the driver. Looking down at his friend, his heart sank. John was still trembling, sweat pouring from his forehead, eyes closed, but pupils moving rapidly, obviously fighting off demons Sherlock couldn't see. He hadn't gotten better at all. Sherlock knew, of course, but had wanted to believe so badly that he had ignored all of the clues that John was faking his recovery. Couldn't ignore this though.

* * *

John was sitting in his chair holding a frozen orange, which Sherlock had handed him, looking tired, ashamed, and defeated. Sherlock explained later that the cold and the smell of the orange helped bring him out of the flashback and ground him in the present. It worked surprisingly well.

Sherlock sat across from him, his fingers pressed together in front of his chin, looking worried and utterly lost. The silence between them had grown tense and thick, weighing them both down and making the distance between them seem insurmountable.

"John," Sherlock finally broke the silence, "what do I do? How do I help you?"

"I honestly don't know, Sherlock," John sounded as utterly defeated as he felt. "Maybe there's nothing you can do. If I had the answers, believe me, I would tell you. I'm just as lost as you."

Sherlock and John stared at one another for a moment before they both looked down, as though the gesture were rehearsed. Neither could face the other at that moment.

Finally, John mumbled that he was going to try to get some sleep, stood, and moved toward the stairs. Sherlock watched him go, desperately trying to hold onto the last dregs of hope, which he felt were slipping quickly away.


	3. The Grey

"I am standing on the edge of returning or just running away.

I am letting myself look the other way.

...

And the hardest part of all of this is I know my way back, I don't want to go

And let you see all that has become of me.

I should've known, I should've known,

I didn't have a chance"

(Icon for Hire, "The Grey").

* * *

John had officially resigned himself. He was broken and could never be whole again. Although the thought made his breath catch in his chest, he was happy at least to have come to the realization, to know for certain now and not have to continue fighting a losing battle. Still, it made facing each day difficult.

He began doing anything he could to make the hours pass, but it was becoming more and more difficult. Time seemed to be slowing to a halt, leaving him caught in the grey space between then and now, trying to run from his past while simultaneously trying not to face his present. He was suspended in purgatory, but felt like he was burning alive in hell.

Eventually, his desperation drove him to, well, desperate means to ease the pain. The burn in his throat as he drank the bottle of wine Lestrade had given them as a gift (after solving a case Sherlock was particularly reticent to take in the first place) felt so absolutely right after the hours of burning he had endured over the last months. Harry's alcoholism and the hell it had caused his family had always more or less put him off of alcohol, but at this moment he could understand perfectly well why someone would want to drink themselves into oblivion. Oblivion sounded quite nice right now, actually. It couldn't be worse than the burning, the suspension, and the grey.

One bottle later, John stumbled out into the rapidly cooling night air, on his way to find more wine, or something stronger perhaps. He knew he had already had more than enough, but it felt so wonderful, being able finally to escape the pain that tormented him day and night and, frankly, he was having a difficult time caring.

When he returned to the flat, Sherlock, who was in his usual chair, glanced up, then quickly turned away, unable to look at his obviously drunk friend. John, however, interpreted this gesture as indifference, born out of him giving up on him. He had, after all, proven himself completely incapable of overcoming this—becoming the man he used to be.

John stumbled back out the door, unable to face Sherlock's indifference, and made his way up to his room, where he pursued oblivion with a new vigor.

* * *

Sherlock was suspended in his own purgatory. Since the charade of John's recovery had ended, he had been unable to pretend life had returned to normal and he was stuck between the burning boredom that was always chasing him and the overwhelming worry and despair that was becoming his constant companion.

When John stepped into the flat carrying what was obviously alcohol, Sherlock couldn't bare to look at him, feeling his further destruction was his own fault for not knowing how to help. He had never felt more useless in his life.

What's more, he had become incredibly terrified of speaking to John, fearing anything he said might trigger him or make him worse. He had not, after all, been much help so far, bursting out in anger almost every time they had spoken. He was certain he would only make things worse and he had done enough damage already.

Instead, he resolved to remain in the background, making sure John didn't fall any further without actually alerting John to his efforts. This way he could help without the threat of making things worse.

A few hours after making this decision, Sherlock was able to put the plan into effect. The sounds of John becoming violently ill from his pursuit of oblivion reached Sherlock through two closed doors. That was, as John would have said, a bit not good.

Sherlock made his way upstairs, careful not to disturb Mrs. Hudson, whom John had been avoiding, unable to face her cheery face in his misery. When he reached John's room, he found his friend passed out, slumped over the toilet, covered in his own sick. Feeling rather ill himself at his friend's state, Sherlock went to check his vitals, making certain he wasn't suffering from alcohol poisoning. Once he was satisfied, he set about cleaning John and getting him to bed, where he tucked him in gently and placed a pitcher of water on his bedside. It was much simpler to deal with other people when they were unconscious, Sherlock thought sadly.

As John slept, Sherlock proceeded to help his friend in the only way he knew how: by gathering more data. Breaking into his therapist's files was incredibly easy, as was hacking into his medical charts (he had forced John to have a physical after his flashback). What he found, unfortunately, didn't surprise him (he wasn't entirely sure he could be surprise anymore). John had told his therapist nothing about what happened, and had hardly spoken at all, in fact. The medical report from the physical added that he had lost a dangerous amount of weight, was slightly dehydrated, and had an untreated infection, probably due to malnutrition impairing his immune system. Sherlock realized he would have to be more proactive with his friend in future.

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks, John drank every night, despite Sherlock's attempts to prevent it, which included paying off every bar and liquor store in the area not to allow John any alcohol. John, however, had apparently become more resourceful in his illness.

Sherlock also began feeding John, who had given up on eating entirely, when he was too intoxicated to notice, though he wasn't sure how effective this was, as he was usually ill afterward. All the while, he refused to say more than a couple of words at a time to him, terrified he would push him even further toward the edge. He called John's therapist and told her what happened (or at least what he knew about) so that she could begin to help John properly, but the action proved worthless as John stopped going to his appointments altogether. Sherlock had stopped taking cases, to Lestrade's annoyance (particularly since he refused to tell Lestrade _why_), spending all his time trying to help his friend instead.

As he sat by his friend's bed every night, he realized that, even in his deepest pain, his weakest hour, his darkest night, John was lovely. But he had become fragile—so easily broken—and Sherlock was never any good with fragile things, particularly people.

John, however, interpreted Sherlock's continued silence as now complete indifference. _How cold have I become_? he though during a particularly bad night. _I never meant to lose you by what I'd done_. He continued chasing oblivion, therefore, with an unwavering passion. As a doctor, he realized that he was putting his body under far too much pressure and it was only a matter of time before it abandoned him. Still, he couldn't let go of the numb the alcohol provided, the release from the burning. It allowed him to exist in a new in-between state, somewhere between alive and dead, where he didn't have to deal with himself anymore.

As Sherlock's indifference continued, John began avoiding the flat whenever possible, unable to face his former friend. This, however, lead to various forms of trouble as John began drinking at bars in shady locations and placing himself purposefully into dangerous situations, feeling he deserved the consequences.

Sherlock began following John whenever he left the flat, rescuing him from each dangerous situation John put himself in, all without his notice. One night, however, John had picked a fight with a particularly large brute of a man and Sherlock had been unable to deter the beating that followed. John, thankfully, was not badly injured, as the brute soon realized the man he was beating was inebriated out of his head and not fighting back in any way. This, however, was the last straw. What Sherlock had been doing was obviously not working and, regardless of the danger, Sherlock had to talk to John.


	4. Iodine

"I can't make reality connect.

I push 'til I have nothing left.

But if we want to wake up,

Why we still singing these lullabies?

I run in circles 'til I crash.

One day these steps will be my last

But if we want to wake up,

Why we still singing these lullabies?"

(Icon for Hire, "Iodine").

* * *

When John stumbled downstairs the morning after his bar fight, trying to ignore his hangover long enough to find some painkillers, but finding Sherlock blocking his path to the kitchen instead.

"We need to talk," he said, giving John a stern look and pointing to his chair.

John smiled slightly, wincing as it made the pain in his head worse.

"You going to break up with me or something?" in truth, he had been dreading the day Sherlock would tell him to just move out and leave his life forever, but he tried to hide this fear behind sarcasm.

Sherlock waited until John was sitting, a cup of warm tea already waiting for him next to his chair, before beginning.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing to yourself?" he asked, sitting in the chair across from John and glaring at him.

John was surprised, but used to Sherlock's angry outbursts by now.

"What does it matter, Sherlock?" he asked, looking away.

Sherlock tried desperately to control the anger in his voice, but after last night's events he was failing miserably. "You've been drinking every night and last night you could have gotten yourself fucking killed!"

"How do you know about that?" John asked, astonished. He barely remembered the fight, but he had plenty of bruises to remind him. Sherlock had most definitely not been there, had he?

"I was there, you idiot. I've been following you, trying to keep you alive, since you don't seem to care anymore if you live or die," Sherlock shouted.

John paused, trying to process this new information through the thick fog of hangover that obscured his thoughts. Sherlock had followed him? Why? He had, of course, noticed certain inconsistencies lately: waking up clean after a rough night, being miraculously saved from a mugging by a stranger, being deposited back in his bed after he passed out in a darkened ally. But he hadn't been able to find the energy to examine these events more closely, so he had simply ignored them. They were beginning to make some sense now, but he couldn't fathom why Sherlock had done it.

"I...I didn't think you cared either," he said after a long pause. "We both know I'm not going to get any better. What's the point of pretending?"

"Of course I care about you, you idiot. How could you not know that?" Sherlock was shocked. It was so obvious! "I refuse to believe you can't get better. By god, if I have to tie you down every night to keep you from hurting yourself I fucking will. But I can't do anything unless you are willing to help yourself!"

John was shocked into silence. Sherlock still cared, still believed in him. He thought he could see a glimmer of hope, still far off, but now visible.

"Oh," was all that John could manage. He was confused and foggy and couldn't grasp what was happening.

Sherlock stared at his friend, taking in the circles under his eyes, his gaunt form, his trembling hand, and his clouded eyes.

"Please," he said, his voice breaking, "don't do this to yourself anymore. Don't do this to me anymore. I can't take it."

"Okay, Sherlock," John replied, "I'll try harder. I promise"

* * *

Over the next few weeks, John put an honest effort into finding his way back to sanity, but it was a constant struggle, which he always seemed to be losing. Even the small accomplishments he achieved were quickly overshadowed by the seemingly insurmountable obstacles placed in front on him each and every day. He did, however, stop drinking, which seemed to make Sherlock happy.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to eat (except when Sherlock absolutely insisted) or to go back to his therapist, who now knew his story, as Sherlock had carefully informed him. He felt, if possible, more ashamed and guilty than before for not keeping his promise to Sherlock. He wanted to get healthy, but he felt he had no control over his own mind anymore. Still, he worked tirelessly against himself, wanting more than anything to make Sherlock happy, as that seemed to be the only thing that could sooth John lately.

Then, one (otherwise completely inconspicuous and normal) night, John's phone vibrated and his world collapsed around him.


	5. Haunted

"Long lost words whispered slowly to me.

Still can't find what keeps me here,

When all this time I've been so hollow inside.

Watching me, wanting me, I can feel you pull me down"

(Evanescence, "Haunted").

* * *

John's hands shook as he looked in shocked silence at his phone, on which a text had appeared from…him. Fighting the urge to throw the phone across the room or scream, John decided to simply set it beside his bed and try to forget about it for now. He had been doing relatively well lately and this was the last thing he needed. He sighed and continued getting ready for bed, knowing the nightmares would be worse tonight because of that one text, or rather that one name, as he hadn't dared read the actual text. Still, that name…it was a definite trigger. He could almost hear his voice in his ear, his breath on his skin, his touch on…_NO!_, he thought savagely, _I will not allow him to do this to me! I won't!_

Shaking, he made his way quietly down to the kitchen, careful not to disturb Sherlock, whom he thought would best be left in the dark about the text. John quickly grabbed an orange from the freezer and headed back upstairs, determined not to succumb to another flashback.

When he arrived at his room, however, his phone was vibrating again and he couldn't stop the knee-jerk reaction to look at it. Five texts. He had missed five texts since he had gone downstairs, not two minutes ago. All from the same person. _Shit_.

Slowly, knowing what he was doing was stupid—beyond stupid—John raised the phone and began reading the texts.

_John, its Robert. I know you probably don't want to talk to me after what happened, but I just couldn't let it end like that. I'm so sorry. Please say you'll talk to me—Robert_

_John, I know you must be mad. Let me explain. You know about my past. I've had a hard time. I didn't know what I was doing. Please forgive me. I just want to talk to you again. Please—Robert_

_John, I was on drugs at the time. I didn't want to tell you this way, but you won't talk to me. I'm clean now, I promise. I'll let you talk to my sponsor and everything. I never meant to hurt you. Please John—Robert_

_We've been friends for so long John, please don't throw that away because I was stupid and out of line. You were there for me when no one else was. I can't lose you like this. Please talk to me—Robert_

_John, if you don't call me, I don't know what I'll do. Actually I do. I have a knife. I can't take it if you do this to me. I never meant to hurt you. It wasn't me. PLEASE call me. Before it is too late—Robert _

John's face was white as he read the last text, his legs collapsing underneath him as tears began to roll down his cheeks. _Oh god_, he thought desperately, _what do I do?_ He was torn. How could he ever talk to this man again after…after what he did. But he was right, they had been friends for so, so long and he had been high at the time, which John had already know, of course, as the signs were more than obvious. And he was going to kill himself if he didn't call…

Shaking and still crying miserably, John picked up his phone, which had slid out of his hand when he fell. He watched as the world around him melted and swirled, his mind unable to process reality as he felt the cold of the plastic in his hand. He dialed the number.

* * *

Sherlock came running as he heard John's tortured screams coming from his bedroom, a sound to which he had, unfortunately, become rather accustom. This scream, however, seemed particularly loud and miserable, as though John were experiencing some kind of physical torture. He burst into his friend's room to find him thrashing wildly on his bed, his face white, lips turning blue as he fought for air in his panic.

Sherlock jumped on top of him, restraining his movements and shouting to wake him. He winced when John opened his eyes and looked at him as though he were the monster from under his childhood bed. But the expression of terror soon faded, to be replaced by one of grief as tears slid down his cheeks.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, moving to sit beside John, panting from the effort of restraining him.

John looked away quickly, not answering, but Sherlock noticed that he glanced at his phone before turning. Numbly, he reached for his friend's phone, terrified that his suspicion about what he was about to discover would be correct. It was.

He read the texts and noted the outgoing call as rage, the magnitude of which he had never before experienced, swelled inside him.

Clutching the phone as if it were responsible for the words it held, Sherlock stood slowly, staring daggers at John, who pushed himself up, staring back at Sherlock and waiting for the storm he was certain was coming. Instead, when he finally spoke, Sherlock's voice was calm and clear, as though he were simply explaining a case.

"I'm going to murder him," he said, never releasing either the phone or John gaze; "I'm going to make him pay!"

John sighed, "Sherlock no. You can't. Please!"

"Of course I can," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, though his death grip on the phone belied his true state of mind, "I'm clever, remember. I won't even get caught, though I'd do it even if I would be caught."

"That isn't what I mean," John said, growing a bit panicked. Sherlock was deadly serious. "I mean that I don't want you to kill him. I don't want anyone to do anything. Just leave it alone, please."

"WHY!" Sherlock's shout could probably have been heard from the street and John could have sworn he heard his phone crack under the pressure of his grip, "why can't I get this fucking bastard who had the _nerve_ to tell you it wasn't his fault?"

"Because it wasn't his fault, Sherlock, it was mine!" John shouted back, his face turning red with shame.

Stunned, Sherlock just stood for a moment, trying to understand what he had just heard. Slowly, he turned and walked to his the bed, sitting beside John, looking intently at him.

"What in bloody hell do you mean?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

John wouldn't look at him, his face still red and his breath catching as though he were restraining sobs.

"You read it, Sherlock. You did the research. We're friends," at the look Sherlock suddenly shot him, John corrected himself, "_were_ friends We _were_ friends. I knew what he was like. He had a rough life and he is obviously not okay. I should never have put myself in that position. I knew he was high. I was so stupid," his voice trailed off, tears slipping down his cheeks as he made the confession he had been suppressing since Sherlock first threatened to hunt Robert down.

Sherlock simply stared at John for a long moment, letting his words wash over him, trying to suppress the emotions threatening to make him shut down completely.

"You have got to be kidding," he said finally, his voice a strange mix of pity and anger. "You can't honestly believe that. You can't honestly believe that any of it was your fault."

"Yes, I can Sherlock. I do," John replied, still unable to meet his gaze. He had never felt more ashamed in his life and the feeling was hitting him like a physical force.

After a long pause, Sherlock stood, still glaring at John, who finally met his eyes.

"I may not be able to convince you that it wasn't your fault that this fucking low-life did this to you, but you can't stop me from finding him," he said, suddenly turning and storming out of the room.

Panicking, John picked up his, now slightly cracked, phone and dialed a familiar number.

"Mycroft," he said, before the man had a chance to say a word, "I need your help. Sherlock is about to do something stupid."


	6. My Last Breath

"Say goodnight.

Don't be afraid.

Calling me, calling me,

As you fade to black"

("My Last Breath," Evanescence).

* * *

Finding the scumbag Robert was so simple it was boring. In fact, Sherlock had been keeping tabs on him for months, only prevented from attacking him by John's pleas, which he heeded due solely to his fragile state. Now, however, after those disgusting texts, all gloves were off.

Sherlock approached the man sitting at the table outside a cafe in Cardiff without a word and sat across from him in the empty chair, noting his appearance, which he had only seen in photographs. The man was plain, if a bit chubby, with dark hair, brown eyes, a short stature, and an incredibly ugly smile. Sherlock restrained his urge to punch the man in front of him, for now. He wanted this man to know exactly why he was going to be killed, slowly.

"Robert?" he asked as the man looked at him confused.

"Yes," Robert's voice was high and nasal. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sherlock," he responded, smiling in a way most people would find incredibly disconcerting, to say the least. "I'm John's _friend_."

Robert looked immediately uncomfortable, "what do you want. John didn't say you were coming."

Sherlock's smile widened as he leaned closer to Robert and said, in a low voice, "I want to watch you suffer like you made John suffer. I want to hurt you in ways you've never even imagined."

Robert's eyes widened and he made to stand, but was immediately restrained by two men. Sherlock, whose own eyes were now wide with shock, immediately recognized Mycroft's men.

"You're coming with us sir," they said, turning Robert and walking away.

Sherlock stood for half a second, shock numbing his body, before he pulled his phone furiously out of his pocket and dialed Mycroft's number.

"I know you're angry brother. Please stay calm," he said upon answering the phone. "John told me what you planned to do and we don't need you going around committing murder, though I honestly don't blame you for wanting to do so."

"Mycroft," Sherlock's voice was dangerous, "I'll kill you first if I have to. You know what that scum did to John!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft kept his voice calm, but the dangerous edge was quite apparent to his brother, "dear brother, go and talk to John. Now!"

* * *

Sherlock stormed into the apartment, huffing and red faced. He stomped over to where John was sitting, in his usual chair, and began shouting.

"Why won't you just let me take care of him? What the fuck is wrong with you? He fucking raped you! Don't you understand that? He deserves everything he gets," Sherlock collapsed into his chair, anger mixing with despair making him unable to stand another moment.

John's face looked totally blank, as though he had turned off, a computer frozen on an empty screen.

"John," Sherlock immediately regretted his words, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"No," the shock of what had just happened was apparent in John's soft voice. "You don't understand. Nobody understands."

"I know that," Sherlock said, trying not to sound exasperated, "I'm just trying to help. Fine, I won't kill the asshole, but you have to press charges. I won't have him unpunished."

"No," John looked at Sherlock, his gaze steady and his voice firm. "I'm not pressing charges. I'm not going to court. Just forget it."

"John, I'm trying to compromise," the anger was rising in Sherlock's voice again. "I won't just let him go with no consequences."

"It isn't your choice," John responded, still staring directly at Sherlock, who was dumbstruck.

"Fine," he said finally, "fine, but if you aren't willing to do anything about this, then I'm done. I can't do this anymore."

Sherlock stood, looking once more at his friend, who looked back with a blank face, before leaving the flat.

John felt as blank as his expression. It was over now. It was all over. He slowly rose and walked to his room, wrapped himself in his blanket, and reached for what was waiting on his bedside table.

* * *

It didn't take long for Sherlock to feel horrible about what had just happened. The cold wind slapped his face, waking him from the anger driven haze in which he had found himself saying such awful, completely untrue words to his only friend.

He turned and headed back to the flat, intent on apologizing immediately.

He found John, a few moments later, curled up in bed, wrapped snugly in his blanket, apparently fast asleep. He paused, debating whether to wake him or not, his overwhelming need to apologize eventually winning out. Gently he placed his hands on John's shoulders and shook him, saying him name to pull him out of his sleep. He must have been sleeping quite deeply, however, because he did not respond in any way. Sherlock shook harder, his voice now louder and more urgent as he repeated his name, but still no response. He began to panic. He checked to make sure John was breathing. He was, thank god, but it was labored and slow, as though he were slowly drowning. He checked his pulse, which was slow…too slow. He looked around wildly, trying to figure out what happened, when he spotted the pill bottle on his bedside. It was John's sleeping pills, but it was now empty. He knew there had been close to ten pills in that bottle last time he checked and they were strong.

_SHIT!_ Sherlock pulled out his phone, fumbling with the stupid device as he typed in a number and pressed call.

"I need an ambulance at the flat, NOW!" he yelled before Lestrade had the chance to say hello.

"What happened?" he asked, urgent concern in his voice. Sherlock heard him shout orders in the background for someone to call the ambulance.

"It's John," Sherlock responded quickly, "overdose. Sleeping pills."

"What," Lestrade's voice was incredulous.

"Nevermind, just get someone here. NOW!" Sherlock hung up the phone and jammed it into his pocket, turning back to John.

"John, you idiot, what did you do?" he said, climbing into bed and cradling John's limp body in his arms. "Stay with me you idiot. Please! Stay with me."

It was only moments before he heard the sirens in the distance, but John's heart had already slowed to an alarming rate by that time and his lips were an alarming shade of blue. Sherlock picked up his partner and cradled him in his arms like a child, carrying him downstairs to meet the ambulance.


	7. Bridge Over Troubled Water

"When you're weary, feeling small,

When tears are in your eyes,

I will dry them off.

….

I'll take your part when darkness comes

And pain is all around.

Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down"

(Simon and Garfunkel, "Bridge Over Troubled Water).

* * *

Sherlock sat in the hard, uncomfortable chair of the hospital waiting room desperately trying not to remember the events that had lead him there. The memories came regardless, however, assaulting him in waves. John being taken from him and placed in the ambulance; the confusion of noise as he pushed his way inside as well; the panic as John stopped breathing completely; his brain informing him that the sleeping pills were shutting down John's nervous system; the CPR and accompanying crack as John's sternum broke with the pressure of the paramedic's hands; the way his hand, which Sherlock was trying desperately to hold, had begun to go cold; the relief that overcame him when John had started breathing again; the way he was rushed away when they had arrived at the hospital, leaving Sherlock so alone.

How did he get here? How did it come to this? Sherlock felt so utterly lost, so helpless. Desperate, he picked up his phone.

"I've been waiting for your call, brother. Please tell me John is well," Mycroft answered on the first ring.

"No, he isn't. He tried to kill himself," Sherlock's voice was unsteady, but he didn't care. His pride didn't matter any more.

"I was afraid something like that would happen," Mycroft responded sadly after a pause. Sherlock heard him speak a few muted words to someone in the background and knew some of his men would be by shortly. "Tell me what happened."

Sherlock related the events that had occurred since their last conversation and Mycroft sighed.

"I thought I already told you this, Sherlock," he said sadly. "John isn't a case. You can't simply solve him. It doesn't work that way."

"What do I do?" the defeat was evident in Sherlock's voice.

"You haven't helped John by indulging in your own anger and avoiding John's (and most of your own) emotions. You can't erase what happened by taking revenge on this Robert fellow and ignoring John's feelings about this won't make anything better," Mycroft explained.

"But the bastard deserves…" Sherlock began.

"Sherlock, just listen. It doesn't matter right now what you think he does or does not deserve. This isn't about you. What matters is John and it is his decision whether or not to press charges. Your job is to support him, not to make his decisions for him. You have to be there for him, _fully_ support him," Mycroft finished.

"Okay, how do I do that?" Sherlock asked, desperate for some answers.

"You have to open up to him if you want him to be able to open up to you. You have to show him you are willing to be vulnerable, to show your own emotions, before he will be able to come to terms with his own. He has never been more vulnerable than he is now and he needs to know he is not alone," Mycroft said carefully.

Sherlock was speechless. Show his emotions? Be vulnerable? He wasn't even sure he knew how.

"Sherlock, if you care about John, you have to do this for him," Mycroft said, after a long pause.

"Okay…okay, I will," Sherlock said finally, already feeling overwhelmed and uncomfortable. But he had said it before: John was more than worth it.

* * *

John felt like shit when he finally regained consciousness and felt even worse when he remembered what had happened. He couldn't be certain why he had woken at all, but he had a good idea. When he pried his dry eyes open, his guess was confirmed as his eyes landed on Sherlock, sitting by his bed looking, somehow, simultaneously furious, defeated, apologetic, and uncertain (_how is that even possible?_).

Sherlock was on his feet seconds after John opened his eyes, leaning over the bed and examining him carefully. John tried to grin at the look on Sherlock's face, which he had never seen before, but his head pounded too much and he ended up with a grimace instead.

"John?" Sherlock's voice broke as he spoke the name.

"Sherlock," John's voice was dry and hoarse, "I'm sorry. It was just too much to take alone."

"I know," Sherlock said, looking guilty. "But don't worry. I'm going to help you from now on. Really help. I promise. You aren't alone anymore."

John didn't know what he meant, but the words were comforting and he relaxed his aching head into the soft pillow. Sherlock, however, suddenly looked fierce again.

"But John, you bloody idiot, if you ever do anything like that to me again, EVER, I will murder you. Do you understand me?" he said sharply.

John couldn't stop the giggle that escaped his lips, though it made his head pound worse than ever.

"Okay," he answered. "Never again, I promise."

* * *

Sherlock had begun what he considered the hardest task he had ever undertaken: finally taking care of John, fully, wholly, and for John's sake and not his own. He began by keeping his promise to Mycroft and setting aside his need for revenge (for now, at least). He would support John's decision, whether or not he agreed or understood.

Over the next day John received a number of visitors, including a very confused Lestrade, who had no idea what happened to John to put him in this state. Thankfully, he had the courtesy not to show his confusion to John or ask stupid questions. Mycroft came by in person and Sherlock avoided eye contact completely for the few minutes he was there, knowing his brother was giving him a simultaneously condescending and pitying look he had no interest in seeing. Molly brought a bunch of flowers and some books for John to read while he recovered, but kept shooting Sherlock looks of confusion with a hint of accusation. Sherlock didn't say a word to her.

After Molly left, Sherlock insisted John sleep, telling him he looked like hell. John didn't need any persuasion. When he finally woke, Sherlock was looking incredibly uncomfortable, fiddling with odds and ends on the table near the bed and looking at John out of the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, John," he said. "I shouldn't have gone after him. It isn't my decision to make and I promise from now on to respect whatever decision you make about him."

John was shocked into silence. Sherlock was apologizing? Admitting he was wrong? He was fairly certain for a moment that he was hallucinating.

"Um…okay. Thank you," was all he could think to say in response. Nonetheless, this answer seemed to please Sherlock, who smiled, stopped fiddling, and took John's hand.

"Sleep now," he said, "you still need rest."

Sherlock refused to leave John's side as he recovered in the hospital and threw a complete fit when the doctor informed him that John would be committed for a short time in the psychiatric ward for a suicide attempt. The issue was "taken care of" by Mycroft's men, however, and John was released without being committed.

* * *

When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock insisted on watching John like a hawk, though John assured him he was fine and would be taking any more pills. Sherlock was apparently unconvinced. After two full days spent making sure John was sleeping and eating (as well as he could manage), Sherlock decided he was well enough to begin talking.

"John, I need to talk to you," he said one morning after making tea and sitting in his usual chair.

"Uh oh, that's never a good sign," John replied, looking ominous.

"No, it's not anything bad. Just the opposite, I hope. I think it is important that I…open up to you about how I'm…" he cleared his throat, so obviously uncomfortable that John had to restrain a laugh, "how I'm, um, feeling."

John couldn't restrain the laugh that erupted out of his throat at that.

"Seriously, Sherlock? You want to talk to me about your _feelings_?" John asked, incredulous.

"Uh, yes…you know I'm not good at this sort of thing, but it is obvious you need to know," Sherlock responded rapidly.

"What? I don't understand," John was truly baffled.

"John, I always thought you understood how I felt about you. I though I made it obvious, but I suppose I was mistaken," Sherlock began, looking at his own shoes. "I am not comfortable discussing how I feel, but I told you that you are worth whatever it takes to get you through this and I meant it. I don't know if this will work, but I'm out of options and I'm getting desperate. I can't lose you!" Sherlock was flushed and terrified, but determined.

"Okay, sure," John replied. To be honest, he was out of options as well and would be eternally grateful for anything that would help even in the slightest. Plus, insight into Sherlock's emotions would be interesting, at the least.

Sherlock took a deep breath and began his confession.


	8. Only a Memory

**Warning: We're about to get a bit mushy here. Also, very, very mild slash.**

**Also, a big thank you to all those who have read this. I love you all! Let me know what you thought please.**

* * *

"And so, you see, I have come to doubt

All that I once held as true.

I stand alone without beliefs.

The only truth I know is you.

And as I watch the drops of rain

Weave their weary paths and die,

I know that I am like the rain:

There but for the grace of you go I"

(Simon and Garfunkel, "Kathy's Song").

* * *

Sherlock looked hesitant and uncertain, a state in which John rarely saw him, but his eyes were filled with a fierce determination.

"John, when I learned what happened to you," he began, unable to meet John's eyes, "I had never been so furious in my life at that scumbag. But, worse, I had never felt so utterly useless and helpless."

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes, his own a deep pool of emotions that John couldn't interpret. John was frozen, unable to speak or move his gaze from his friend's intense stare.

"I couldn't protect you and I couldn't fix it or erase it or make it better. I…I can't handle seeing you in pain and it drove me crazy knowing you were hurting and feeling as though I could do nothing to help," Sherlock looked back down to the floor and paused for a long moment.

"I couldn't confront my own feelings, so I hid behind my anger at Robert," Sherlock noted that John still flinched at the name, "but that was cowardly of me."

"Sherlock, it's okay…" John began, wanting to comfort Sherlock, who was obviously struggling.

"No, let me finish," Sherlock looked up at John now, his eyes catching his friend's in an intense stare. "John, I care about you more than I have ever cared about anyone in my life," John's eyes widened, but he didn't say a word to interrupt his friend's confession. Sherlock's eyes never left his, "I have always said that love is a dangerous disadvantage, and in some ways it is true. Watching you suffer has nearly torn me apart. But as I said before, you are more than worth it."

"Sherlock, what are you saying?" John asked, astonished.

"John, I know you are straight and I would never want to make you feel uncomfortable or pressured. I just thought you should know how I feel and why your wellbeing means so much to me," Sherlock finished, looking down again.

Silence flooded the room like a tangible force, pressing in on both men, making it difficult to breath. John couldn't speak—couldn't think—for almost a full minute. Finally, he broke the silence, catching Sherlock's eyes and staring steadily.

"Sherlock," he began, his breath catching in his chest as he tried express a truth he felt so deeply in words that seemed completely inadequate, "when I first met you my life felt worthless, but then you showed up and made my life worth something again. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me."

John paused, letting his eyes drop. Sherlock's expression was unreadable.

"I'm not like you, Sherlock. I can't read people like you can. I never know what you think about me or how you feel. When…when I came back from Spain…I felt like I had lost everything. I didn't know what to believe anymore. But you were—are—my one constant, my only truth. I owe you everything and you owe me nothing," he stood, suddenly too embarrassed to stay any longer.

As he turned to leave, however, he felt a hand on his arm, turning him gently. Sherlock was inches from him, staring fiercely into his eyes, his breath warm on John's skin. John had tensed at the unexpected touch, but relaxed as soon as he saw his friend's face.

"John, I…I am apparently incapable of relating my feelings to you in words," he said slowly, his voice a deep bass that passed though John like a gentle breeze, "so, may I show you?"

John stared at him for a moment, processing what Sherlock had just said. Sherlock held his gaze, his hand still pressed gently on John's arm. Finally, John nodded, moving his head infinitesimally—afraid to lose his friend's gaze, afraid the spell would break.

Sherlock leaned in, covering the small space between them slowly, and pressed his lips against John's very gently, afraid to move too quickly. John, however, pressed back insistently, as though searching those lips for the answers he had lost. John's skin tingled and he felt dizzy as he moved his hands to Sherlock's face and hair, feeling those infuriatingly sharp cheekbones and that beautifully curly hair. Sherlock moved his own hands carefully to John's waist and pulled him gently closer. Neither had ever felt more at home or more at peace than they did at that moment.

* * *

"You will bleed for what your hands have done.

You can't outrun your ending.

And I'll get well long before you let yourself.

I may forgive you, but you never will.

I will not bend until I break.

How much can one bruised body take?

Just not enough to silence me.

You're only a memory.

I'll scream these words 'til they come true,

Then I will think no more of you.

Look back on what I'm going through.

This isn't my identity!"

(Icon for Hire, "Only a Memory").

* * *

If John's life were a fairy tale, the kiss of a prince would have woken him from his spell and he would have lived happily there after, but it was not. Although kissing Sherlock made him feel amazing and certainly helped motivate him to get better, it could not fix him. Unfortunately, he would have to do that himself.

He remembered having read somewhere that you "sometimes have to kind of die inside in order to rise from your own ashes and believe in yourself and love yourself and become a new person." He had been burned alive, smothered in flame and reduced to ashes, but, like a phoenix, he was ready to start fighting his way back up from his own ashes. And Sherlock's help and support were certainly not hurting anything.

Over the next few months, John worked his ass off. He went to therapy; read books about trauma and recovery; began eating again (slowly, and under doctor supervision due to re-feeding syndrome); and, most importantly, started telling his story, one painful word at a time.

Sherlock, meanwhile, began actually listening to John's needs and responding as well as he was able. He never once mentioned pressing charges or getting revenge, though, to be honest, he thought about it constantly and had even begun having rather disturbingly graphic (read: bloody) dreams about it. He supported John without pressuring him, but likewise made sure there were never any bottles of pills left in his bedroom (he also confiscated his gun).

John, to his extreme pleasure, was doing much better: he was gaining weight slowly; his nightmares had lessened; his limp was gone, as were his tremors; his therapist seemed pleased with his effort; and he was finally beginning to look happy again.

They had not done more than kiss, though Sherlock had slept in John's bed every night since their first kiss. Sherlock could tell John wasn't ready and had no intention of pressuring him. For the moment, both were content with kissing, often, and holding one another as if their lives depended on it.

One morning, almost three months after returning from the hospital, John asked Sherlock if they could talk about something important.

"What is it?" Sherlock sat in his chair, holding a warm mug of tea and looking at John with concern.

"I've made a decision," John began, taking a deep breath, "I want to press charges."

"What?" Sherlock tried desperately not to look triumphant, "are you sure?"

"Yes," John was looking at the floor, his hands shaking slightly. "I dread the idea of a trial and having to face him again in person, but you were right. If I don't do anything, he is going to do this to someone else. He needs help and he needs to be put somewhere where he won't hurt anyone anymore."

"John," Sherlock's voice was soft and gentle, "I think that is the bravest thing I have ever heard. You are amazing!"

John looked up and their eyes caught. They spent the next few minutes in one another's arms, blissfully distracted from the hell they were about to face, together.

* * *

John sat on the witness stand with a straight back and set jaw, looking like a soldier about to take (or give) orders, but his eyes never left Sherlock's. The defense attorney was walking back and forth in front of him, a shark about to attack.

"Dr. Watson," he said, turning to John, "how long have you known Mr. Mallory?" he asked, turning to point at Robert, who was staring at John with a look of mixed betrayal and fury. His response to John's decision had been unsurprising. John had eventually been forced to change his cell phone number and get a restraining order.

"Since we were children," John's voice didn't waver at all, but likewise contained almost no pitch, "as long as I can remember."

"And you were aware of Mr. Mallory's past? Of the abuse he suffered at the hands of his uncle when he was just a child?" the attorney looked to the jury at this point, obviously seeking pity.

"Yes," John replied tersely.

"And had Robert ever expressed any interest in being more than friends with you?" he asked, turning back to John.

"Yes," John replied, not looking at Robert or Sherlock.

"And at the time that you _claim_ he had relations with you without your consent, what was his state of mind, as a medical doctor?" he had turned to look at the jury again.

"He was high, though I don't know what he had taken. He had also had alcohol, so he was in an impaired state," John said in a monotone voice. He knew where this was going and, although he had prepared himself for it, he dreaded it completely.

"And in what state of mind were you, Dr. Watson?" the attorney asked.

"I had consumed alcohol as well," he answered, tensing.

"Is it true that you and Mr. Mallory have been intimate in the past?" he asked, smiling so slightly that only John could see it.

"We were teenagers," John tried not to let his anger or humiliation show. The entire trial had been one long nightmare. Having to face his friends knowing exactly what had happened to him had been bad enough, but now this man was dragging him through the mud in front of everybody he cared about.

"Ah, I see. So, are you saying that, having been intimate with Mr. Mallory in the past, you now claim that your relations in Spain were non-consensual, though you willfully put yourself in a situation in which you were alone with him while both of you were in an impaired state, knowing his past and his feelings for you?" he began, staring daggers at John and raising his voice slightly. "It certainly seems you put yourself in a rather compromising position if you didn't want to be intimate _again_ with Mr. Mallory. Isn't it true that you led Mr. Mallory to believe you wanted to be intimate and only afterward claimed it was non-consensual in a fit of revenge when he didn't want a long term relationship with you?"

"Objection!" the attorney Mycroft had insisted John use stood and banged his hand on the table. John, however, was looking nervously at Sherlock, who looked as though he were about to jump the barricade and assault the attorney. The objection was sustained and the defense attorney turned back to John.

"When you were drinking, did Mr. Mallory not tell you he wanted to become physical with you?" the attorney continued, smiling.

"Yes, but…" John started, but was interrupted.

"And did you not go with Mr. Mallory to his hotel room alone at three in the morning?" the attorney continued.

"I did," John answered, knowing it was useless to try and explain further.

"You were a captain in the army, weren't you, Dr. Watson?" he continued.

"Yes," John grew more tense.

"You are skilled in combat and you carry a weapon with you, do you not?" he asked.

John sighed, "Yes."

"Then, why did you not resist Mr. Mallory?" he asked, facing the jury. "Your medical reports show no signs of resistance, yet a man of your skill could surely have put up a fight, if you didn't want his advances?"

"He was my friend and I was drunk. I never expected him to…to do anything like that and when he did, I was in shock. I didn't know what to do…I didn't want to hurt him. I was…confused," John struggled to find words to express his reaction to Robert's assault. It was extremely difficult. He wasn't quite sure he understood himself why he hadn't put up more of a physical resistance, though he had put up quite a verbal resistance. He felt incredibly stupid and weak.

"Hmm, I see. Confused…" the attorney turned again to the jury, giving them a look that clearly indicated he thought John's answer was utter nonsense. "I have no more questions."

John sighed as he was dismissed, feeling dizzy and light headed. He tried desperately not to limp on his way back to his chair, though he was more than certain Sherlock noticed. He refused to look Sherlock in the eye for the next half hour.

* * *

Nobody was surprised when the verdict arrived and Robert was found guilty and awarded the longest sentence possible. Mycroft had, after all, had a hand in the trial. When it was over, Sherlock lead John out of the courtroom with his arms wrapped protectively around his shoulders, avoiding paparazzi (famous Sherlock's partner trial!) with Lestrade and Mycroft's help.

When they arrived back at the flat, John was surprised to see the apartment clean (well, more clean than usual) and the table set, complete with candles and a dinner that smelled beautiful. Sherlock smiled at his expression and let him to the table.

"I though you might like a nice, relaxing evening at home," he said, dishing food onto their plates. "I've rented some movies you've been wanting to see and Mrs. Hudson has promise not to let anyone disturb us."

John was aware that Sherlock was trying to distract him from the trial, but he was shocked at Sherlock's thoughtful actions and immensely grateful. He smiled at began enjoying his evening with Sherlock.

Halfway though the first movie (which wasn't even out of the theatres yet), Sherlock received a text, which he read with a look of shear pleasure. John decided to ignore it, however, and instead leaned closer to Sherlock, who put his arm around John's shoulder and threw his phone aside.

* * *

Mycroft approached the cell, waving the guard away dismissively and looking at the man in front of him with a disturbing smile on his face. Robert looked back at Mycroft with a horrible sense of foreboding, wondering why the guard had left and why all the other cells in this block were empty.

Mycroft, standing in the doorway of Robert's cell, took out his cell phone and sent his brother a text: "I'm taking care of things here, brother. You take care of John." He then turned the phone off, his smile widening, and stepped into the cell.


End file.
